


low rider don't drive too fast

by phae



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: First Meetings, M/M, Pre-Slash, badboy!Clint, badboy!Phil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2013-06-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 06:11:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phae/pseuds/phae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their first meeting sets a pattern for the rest of their lives. <i>Or,</i> Coulson has a habit of showing up right when Clint gets in over his head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	low rider don't drive too fast

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the interview where Clark Gregg joked about his checkered past, which lead to much badboy!Phil goodies popping up all over my dashboard.
> 
> Edit: Forgot all about linking stuff. Whoops! ^^; allochthon posted them in a comment, so here they are: [LA Weekly Article](http://www.laweekly.com/2013-05-30/film-tv/clark-gregg-agents-of-shield/) and [the art](http://rascalparadyne.tumblr.com/post/52459956354/allochthon-left-a-prompt-in-my-ask-and-i-resisted) by Dr. Kara and Rascalparadyne.
> 
> Also, title is from _Low Rider_ by War. You know, the one Nicholas Cage has to listen to to get pumped for boosting cars?

Clint pulls the jacked Honda Civic into an overnight parking deck, whipping around the turns and heading up, up, up until he hits the top level. He’s barely thrown the car in park before his hand is scrambling for the door handle and he’s flinging himself out and away from the car.

He leans back against the bearing wall and his legs give out under him. Clint clenches his trembling fingers into tight fists, but then the shaking just spreads up both arms.

Clint’s supposed to drop the car off at some local chop shop and then meet Barney back at their trailer before the circus rolls out in the morning, but there’s cops crawling all over the neighborhood and he saw the lights flashing from where they had someone pulled over for a traffic stop and he just—panicked.

He feels like he’s about to puke; yeah, he’s definitely going to puke. He flops forward onto his hands and knees, shakily making for a grubby trashcan a few yards away.

As he’s grasping at the jagged metal edge to pull himself up a bit, a shadow moves in the corner and soft foot steps ring out across the concrete, someone moving steadily his way.

Clint turns and presses his back to the trashcan, one arm kept behind him so that he can slip his throwing knives into his hand from where he has them holstered inside the waistband of his worn jeans.

The figure walking towards him steps into the flickering light of an exposed lightbulb dangling from the ceiling. It’s a kid, guy doesn’t look like he’s that much older than Clint, with a dusty leather jacket thrown over a t-shit with some kind of patriot logo on the front pulled tight across his well-muscled chest. The guy pulls a smoldering cigarette from his mouth and drops it to the deck, stomping out the dying light with the sole of a beat up combat boot.

The guy cocks his head to the side and smirks at Clint. “First boost’s always the most nerve wracking.”

Clint licks his cracked lips and slides his index finger along the smooth edge of a blade. “This is my third.”

The guy laughs at that, short and sharp, and the sound bounces around them. “Shit, kid. You should get out before you get caught.”

“I’ll get right on that.”

He nods at Clint, flicks him a sloppy salute, then turns on his heel. “A bit of advice,” he throws back over his shoulder as he walks away, “Don’t lay too low. That’s just as suspicious as a drag race down Main Street.”

“Yeah, thanks,” Clint shouts after him, finally moving his hand away from his knives and planting it flat on the floor. On the plus side, he doesn’t feel like he’s going to be sick anymore.

“Also,” the guy’s voice continues from the shadows, “Now would be a good time to run.”

Clint tenses at the warning, squints to try and make out the guy in the dark, and that’s when he hears the police sirens. His pulse spikes, adrenaline courses through his veins like nitros, and then Clint’s on his feet again. He runs.


End file.
